


Forty thousand reasons

by Pef



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22990945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pef/pseuds/Pef
Summary: The Immaterium poisons everything, the living and the machine. The Tau, the Necrons and the Eldar chip away at humanity.In the dark future of 40th Millennium there is only war.And if you somehow still survive, the Tyranids will eat everyone anyway.
Kudos: 2





	Forty thousand reasons

"Only the insane have strength enough to prosper. Only those that prosper truly judge what is sane."  
0001101010011110000111111

My savant implant must be acting up, for some reason. Hopefully is only a technical glitch, and not something else.

The else could mean something much worse.

Something that money, or thrones as they are called here could not fix. Like a demonic possession.

Fortunately, I know I must have Blank, like a vaguely remember choosing during my build. Before I was sent here.

My father is rather amused at my so called "Blessing".

For a Rogue Trader being born as a Blank is a boon, unlike back in the Empire. And if my children should inherit this trait, our position will become even stronger.

Warp incursions would avoid the clan, and thus keep the ship safe. Safe-ish.

Not everything that wants to kill you is a warp-spawn, after all.

And here, in the grim future of the 40th Millennium, everything wants to kill you.

"Augur telemetry confirm the planet sustains life. The missiles heading our way confirm this as well." the sensor station girl spoke with a faint trace of irony. Linne Joana Decima. A cousin, if some steps removed.

Also, a potential concubine, should the Lord Captain wish it so. And on this vessel, he speaks with the Voice of the Emperor.

"Turn ship to port. Lance batteries target the launch sites." my father orders in a calm voice.

I look at him with curious eyes. He is a Conqueror, a build that emphasizes as guessed, war. Conquering his own merry kingdom among the stars in the Eastern Fringe.

Our ship, the Litany for the Vanquished is the epitome of a war vessel, armed to the teeth, and the teeth armored to hell.

I suspect it has started out as a docile and pleasant light cruiser, before whatever Favor my grandfather traded with Forge World Antax was returned in a plethora of advanced tech and upgrades to every possible, and a few impossible systems.

Like a choir of tech priests detached to our ship, forever. Lance batteries that would put a heavy cruiser to shame.

An armored battalion and a grenadier regiment, all equipped and provisioned by Antax for the next 1011 years.

Time has a different value around here.

Windows tint as spears of light start flashing, each of them sufficient to obliterate a city or a meter of adamantium armor.

Soon enough, our lance guns evaporate the ground missile launchers of the natives, and probably any nearby cities.

There is no Geneva Convention in the 40k universe. The Tyranids would likely eat the entire convention as a snack.  
Then eat the whole world and keep going.

In fact, they did just that, on Okassis. Hive fleet Kraken ate whoever didn't manage to fly away. And in this galaxy, you need to be rich or powerful to have a ship.

Well, one able to travel the Warp at least. There are in-system ships that are much cheaper and easier to acquire. You don't even need a Warrant of Trade for those.

I have one myself, so I know. Technically, you could call the Mona Lisa a shuttle, even if it's larger than a passenger airplane back home.

And armed and armored by default. Anything without weapons and armor is only snacks for this evil galaxy.

"Captain, the ground skaks are human. Shall we conquer this world in the name of the Emperor?" the XO asks rhetorically.

Of course, we will. We don't carry all those tanks and grenadiers for a pleasure cruise. Their purpose is to fight and die and make us rich. Richer.

And if the Emperor is merciful, we might find another relic or ancient tech that we can barter with the Mechanicus for.

Best guys in this corner of the galaxy, the tech worshipers. As long as you 'gift' them nice stuff.

With a metal tentacle waving at my father, the bridge priest signals he has begun his own part. Data and signal warfare.  
A somewhat analogue version of ECM.

I don't expect the poor natives to rise to the challenge anyway. This is the 46th planet we are pacifying this century.

The Eastern Fringe is rather filled with old era human worlds, mostly devolved into barbarism of some kind.

In fact, missiles or other advanced weapons are rare. Maintaining old stocks is difficult, and inventing new stuff almost always leads to suffering. Eternal suffering sometimes.

"Going back to my work, Captain. Please call me when the landings begin." I say politely and nod to my father.

The grizzly warrior smiles proudly and waves me off.

He knows I don't like orbital bombardments. They might look clean and neat from orbit, but I've seen the results afterwards. Charred buildings and corpses are not that glorious.

As I slink away and salute the marines guarding the armored bridge door, I run another diagnostic on my implant.

"When you decide to die, remember to give the enemy the same honour"  
11000111000001

Oddly appropriate this time, and a sign it's not a mechanical malfunction. Those neuron filaments forming the biological part of the implant are becoming sentient.

And possibly stealing data from my own brain. Not sure if that's a heresy or not.

Most likely it is. Everything not by the book is heretical after all.

And for good reason, as it happens. Machine Spirits are actually human souls, cloned and chopped into bits, then used as conduits and processors instead of the worse variant, the Abominable Intelligences.

The demented A.I. that always, always, always try to genocide everyone. Not that I blame them much.

For those not Blanks, exposure to Warp and it's inherent dangers must be like living in Hell.

Come to think of it, this galaxy might be Hell.

The Outer Fringes of it, if the Eastern Fringes reflect a higher reality.

I reach my lab and drop into my chair.

"Praise the Omnissiah, Revelator. What are we working on now?" my mentor wonders and tilts its coghead towards me.

"First, we need to calibrate my implant. I keep getting random quotes from a various codex. Then, tank tracks again." I explain in a tiny voice.

The tech priest has been mostly polite and nice, for something of his nature. But it might slice me into bits anytime, should I make a critical mistake, like those reactor crew enginseers did.

They didn't suffer long, so at least I know my mentor is not really a sadist. Only disconnected from humanity.

"There is no truth in flesh, only betrayal." Magos Gyron says with a trace of humor.

Yes, he can do jokes and humor just fine. They're merely hard to get sometimes.

"I was speaking of a broken machine, mentor. My flesh is fine for now." I quip back, and lean my head forward.

Without painkillers and any kind of kindness, the magos opens my skull and peeks inside at my brain.

I'm pretty sure I should be fainting in pain, or screaming my lungs out, but I feel only boredom. The operation takes too long.

"The silver contacts have melted away, and the implant was being oxidized by cerebro-spinal fluids. Only the gold connectors are intact. Curious. But then..." the tech priest mutters in Gothic, maintaining politeness for some strange reason.

"If my brain gives off enough heat to melt silver, I shouldn't be alive anyway." I said after thinking for a minute.

"Exactly. There, I've replaced everything with platinum wire. The organic parts seem to grow nicely. You'll become a savant soon enough, Pef." Magos Gyron replies while gluing my cranium back in place. With glue.

I've become quite stoic at the strangeness of the Machine Cult, and their lack of common sense.

As the mechadendrites retract from my head, I power on the cogitator on my desk, and project a greenish hologram of a tank drive system.

This one is a Chimera personnel carrier tracked vehicle, a standard model among the armies of humanity, in the Astra Militarum and others.

Without 3D tools it takes painful and tedious work to create a template for a mechanical foundry. But it only took three years and we're almost finished.

I tap a few keys and open the other version, the original STC template.

For someone without technical education, they would look nearly identical. But, both me and the magos know better.

My new version has 36 percent less moving parts, is 20 percent more durable, has 10 percent better ground pressure resistance and many other perks.

The drive sprockets need to be covered in adamantium, and the torsion bars as well, if possible.

But even using cheaper materials, the new drive train will be revolutionary. Because anything made simpler and more rugged means longer operational times, less maintenance, fewer vehicles lost in transit or during maneuvers.

Now combine that with 1 million army regiments, and a billion war machines.

Even if the new tracks increase the Chimera effectiveness by only 5 percent, although it should be at least 10 percent, that means 50 million armored vehicles more, to fight the Emperor's enemies.

Logistics is the basis of any war, and the Warhammer universe is always at war. If my three years of work provide millions of extra tanks, critical victories might be won. Even if it doesn't lead directly to more victories, the enemies will lose more troops, and then be vanquished later.

Gyron observes my work with its mechanical eyes, lenses recording me with something approaching fear.

Late into the night, I stop to save my progress, and then make a backup copy on my implant.

"There is no strength in flesh, only weakness."  
0111011110000000

My implant feeds me another ironic wise quote, as my body fails me and I fall asleep.

A minute later, a voidguard marine busts in room.

"Lord Pef. Your presence is required on the bridge. Now." the soldier says in a harsh voice.

Not my earliest convenience, then. I run towards the bridge elevator, still half asleep.

As I pass other soldiers, they salute me rather startled.

Then again, Captain's son running at full tilt wasn't that common in the main corridor. I usually trained my body in the barracks floor, with all the other grenadiers. Morale is thing, out here.

I rush on the bridge, to find it devoid of higher rank officers, only the Navigator and a couple of tech priests, with some distant cousins manning the auspex consoles.

"Where is the Captain?" I ask as I force myself to breathe.

The Navigator scowls and turns to stare at me with all his three eyes. He doesn't like Blanks much, I suspect. That was a joke. I heard psykers have a revulsion towards any Blanks, not just me.

"Lord Pef. You father left clear orders. In the event of his death, you are to succeed and inherit the Warrant. All hail Captain Pef!" the Navigator proclaims in a psyker voice, a wave of command dispersing the words throughout the ship.

With a bewildered face, I fall in the Captain chair, and feel the ship's Machine Spirit link up with my implant.

"Victory needs no explanation. Defeat allows none."  
000111000

Not the time for quotes, damn implant.

With a sad sob, I turn to stare at the Navigator, while reading the logs on my implant.

The natives had other advanced weapons. Melta guns, strong enough to burn through ceramite encased power armor.

Well, they probably didn't have them anymore. The planet didn't have any cities left now.

"Launch full occupation, all battalions except the marines." I order with a sad heart. I will have to name this planet now, after it got conquered. Probably something corny like Retribution.

The crew would not accept any compromise now, and these guys wouldn't want one either. Not after we killed like a billion of their people.

The conquest of Retribution lasted merely months.

Then again, we had a cruiser in orbit, 5 kilometers of guns, armor and cathedrals, too able and willing to impart Retribution on these heretics.

Paired with air superiority via our fighter squadron, and liberal use of Mechanicus noosphere magic, the ground locked enemies were rapidly corralled and captured, or killed if they resisted.

Either way, the planet provided fresh replenishments for the depleted lower decks, new serfs and other lower servitor castes being inducted, stamped and cyborgdized into more useful forms.

I even convinced Magos Gyron to begin installing servitors as targeting heads for our long range torpedoes.

It took a dozen trials, but now our long range weapons could turn and attempt homing while the propellant lasted. The efficiency increase was over 300 percent this time, but sadly my own area of control was limited by the Warrant.

Back in Empire Space, my words were feeble and likely without any true power, but here on my Ship, I now spoke with the Voice of the Emperor.

Something even the Mechanicus Cult was not likely to defy, just like every other members of the crew or the military we carried.

It will take a few more generations before the regiment fully transformed from an auxiliary Mechanicus unit to my own household regiment, but my father had already began that plan, replacing sergeants and corporals with loyal soldiers, sending difficult officers on long range reconnaissance and other dangerous missions.

I didn't want to stir things too much with the grenadiers, but I did want a proper armored regiment if that was possible. My clan was rich, very rich. I could afford to pay for new machines and equipment from my clan's budget, if we really needed to.

I named Lord Swedros, my Father's XO as planetary governor on Retribution, and gave him all the old Chimeras, half the new servitors and a grenadier battalion formed by the least loyal troops, as well as one orbit capable shuttle.

The guy seemed rather pleased at his new post, and probably thankful I didn't simply space him. That was the tradition after a Captain change among Rogue Traders.

But I didn't want to waste a competent guy, simply because I didn't like or trusted him. He could still be useful, making Retribution productive again, in a few decades.

"We head to Antax now, I'll need my Warrant ratified and some new equipment." I told my new bridge crew, still mostly clan members but with an enginseer and a more pliable auspex tech priest added in for extra points of view.

I knew I could get away with minor quirks, and myself being mentored by a Mechanicus Magos was no secret among the clan.

Not that anyone could tell we were related just by looking at us. Genetic diversity in the galaxy was enormous, and grandfather had over 30 wives during his millennium long life.

My father had been more conservative, with only half that many wives, including my own mother that nobody knew where she had come from, and where she had gone.

I have a few pics of her, platinum hair and green eyes, and a rumor she was a witch. Probably a Blank, if I think on it. Still a witch, but the good kind in my view.

Keeping away the Warp was a nice gift she gave me.

I have a strange feeling I will meet her again, but hopefully not from the other end of an Exitus rifle. The Vindicare assassins are rather famous for training Blanks, after all.

Back in my mechanical lab, I go over a few more projects, all of them attempting to simplify and enhance Imperial technology with varied degrees of success and heresy.

We have a hand-held melta gun to analyze and rebuild, the standard template lasgun, an auspex sensor based on lasers, and my masterpiece: the tri-barrel multilaser.

The Lasgun is rather hard to improve cheaply. The Emperor himself had worked on this weapon for years, and he is rather smarter than me. Sure, expensive capacitors and high definition lenses can improve the gun significantly. The reverse is rather hard.  
I do have two fixes that will increase lethal range by 10 meters and powerpack capacity by 5 percent.

Gyron is quite amazed at the simple solutions I found and has vowed to support the new Retribution template in front of his Mechanicus peers. That's our story, and we will stick to it.

Ancient STC patterns, discovered by a famous Rogue Trader. Highly effective, considering the Rogue Trader paid with his life for the discovery.

The auspex sensors are a type of LIDAR, and by increasing photon density and collimating the beam by a few microns, we extend range and definition by 7 percent. Nothing huge, until you consider the trillions of such sensors installed on nearly every war machine in the Empire.

The new Multilaser is nothing so simple. At first, I simply tried adding a new barrel for extra cooling and a minor rate of fire. But somehow, moving the cooling coiling into a new pattern increased not only the rate of fire, but penetration and range by 25 percent.

It is almost like geometric magic. Separating the barrels even further doesn't work, and instead reduces the damage.

"It is the polarization, Captain. Turning the mechanism by 45 degrees, it increases lenses reflection, as fewer photons pass through the focus mirror. Thus, less heating and better penetration." Gyron concludes after trying the same orientation with a normal two-barrel multilaser, and replicating my results.

I shrugged in defeat. "I bow to your wisdom, mentor. These Ancient humans were so clever, right?"

"You think me foolish, but all knowledge is manifestation of deity. The Emperor was learned indeed, and that's why we are allied now. But, as his Voice you improved his works too. Thus, Omnissiah flows though you." the priest commented in a serious tone.

I hummed in deep thought at that. Religion was a serious thing here, more so for those exposed to the Immaterium, unlike me.

"Our Navigator cannot sense the Astronomicon so far way. He locks on Ultramar instead, and works well enough. Though I still want to get a look inside those Geller generators once we are in dock." I mused out loud.

The magos waved a few metallic tentacles in warning. "You should really not. This may be your ship, but those that stare in the warp, they get stared back."

"But if we are in real space, it should be safe?" I wonder for argument's sake.

"Nowhere is truly safe, silly boy. And inside a Geller field generator, much less than anywhere. Even your Blank aura isn't sufficient. When we assemble...well. I better not speak of it. But there's a reason only higher ranked priests can enter them." Gyron continued in a calm tone, while producing a dozen vials of scented oils and incense burners to sanctify the new multilaser.

Normally, I would dismiss such things as superstition or stupidity. Until your own weapon grows fangs and tries to eat you. Happens sometimes, during traveling the warp.

Not so much with sanctified weapons. I still have a scar on my forearm from my first laser pistol that became sentient or maybe emotional. And bit me.

Did I mention how Machine Spirits are made from cloned human tissue? Well, humanity is the Emperor's domain in the Warp. Including the amputated ones.

The Mechanicus have rapidly learned the trick, and have used this knowledge to great effect to protect all their machinery from the warp using human cells and nerves as conduits for the Emperor's protection.

"Emperor protects!" is the most commonly used phrase among humans. Because he really does.

Just not in the mundane world, not unless He raises a Saint or sends the Legion of the Damned to intervene directly.

But those things are so rare they are myths and legend anyway.

Sometimes I wonder how he sees me, while under this Blank cover. Then again, I do have humans genes. It's possibly blood magic or something, for high level entities like that.

That Eldar tentacle warp god does kinda the same thing, in reverse. Targeting all Eldars for more excess and shit.

'Stay strong Adam. One day I will reach Terra and try to fix your chair. This galaxy needs you.' I whispered in my mind, watching the familiar gestures of the Mechanicus priest painting my projects with holy oils.

Not too soon though. I still had lots of things to do, out here outside the Empire.

Mentally, I began preparing contingencies for the Forge_World visit, and various trade protocols left behind by my dear grandfather, who seemed to be good friends with the Fabricator-General.

Probably a whole bucket of crap, the famous friendship. But if it worked once, it should work again, as long as I brought nice gifts.

The trip through the Warp was relatively safe and quick, three weeks for those on board, and 6 months for the galaxy.

Loses on the lower decks remained under 2 percent, which meant we will not need to restock of Gellar field consumables, whatever they were.

Gyron tells me we only need to worry at 6 percent loses.

For now, I have no choice but to believe him, and hope for the best. The Mechanicus uses the same type of generator as my upgraded cruiser, and they rarely vanish during trips, unlike the local Navy ships which tend to encounter problems on every single patrol.

Forge world Antax is a dead world, since nobody bothers with environmental laws around here. The pollution and radiation alone would kill unarmored humans in minutes.

That's only on the surface though. Deep underground, the Cult Mechanicus lives in enclosed tunnels and caves like ants.

It also has a ring of orbital shipyards and thousands of mining or transport ships to supply the forges with metals or organic components.

The Litany itself carries a million spare parts of organic origin, and could always come round with more. Human resources are plentiful in the galaxy, and we only need to wait a few decades for more such resources to regenerate on their own, then visit a conquered planet to harvest more.

We send codes and passwords, as well as the electronic Warrant ahead, to avoid being atomized by some zealous priest. Our void shields stay up, and the void marines are on full alert anyway.

That was among the first things I did as the new Captain. Three companies of marines are now always posted around the bridge, reactor and the Gellar generator. Another company patrols the lower decks, in fully enclosed suits and backed up by twice as many combat servitors. A couple AFVs are also deployed with them, to provide some armor support in case of need.

I have also begun to slowly increase the serfs food rations in quantity and quality, but I can only do so much, and not annoy the traditionalists among the crew, who would rather dispense burning promethium instead of clean water and decent food.

I had to explain to them how much costly promethium is compared to water. "Don't spend my thrones when is not needed, guys. Water is cheap, so we give the serfs water."

Afraid they might get be penalized from their shares for every munition they spend to quell revolts or mutinies, the officers had temporarily agreed to try the humane option first, if it was cheapest.

After a day of waiting, my cruiser is finally allowed to dock and refuel in an orbital dock, as I am escorted towards the Fabricator General with all the new 'discoveries'

Sadly, the Retribution pattern melta gun is not reproducible by our on-board forge, but I expect the Mechanicus priests will equip a few companies with licensed guns for free. We cannot simply buy stuff from the Cult, but trading favours is not only accepted but the only way to acquire Mechanicus-level weapons or technology.

Sure, technically the Mechanicus is obliged by treaty to provide weapons freely to every ship and regiment, but the waiting list is longer than my cruiser. I rather skip ahead by providing a worthy gift.

"Lord Pef, Captain of the Litany of the Vanquished. The Fabricator General will see you now." a red-robed tech priest says in Gothic, and glares at me with blue lenses cyborg eyes.

"Thank you, Magos." I answer and enter the study, and notice that Gyron has been halted by the other Magos for a friendly chat in binary.

A monstrous construct receives me, not even a hint of organic origin left. Dozens of tentacles and arms, at least thirty weapons I can detect and probably twice as many I do not.

"So you are the famous BlankTrader. What do you want for those patterns?" the Fabricator priest asks me in fluent Gothic.

I blink confused. The protocols are burned already.

"They are gifts. If every forge world also receives them, once they pass your tests, Fabricator." I answer in a level voice.

That is the crux of the problem. Forge worlds tend to be secretive and jealous, guarding tech like religious relics.

The Fabricator holds still for a second, which should mean hours of accelerated thought for someone of his powers.

"Denied. Even if I could accept these gifts, dissemination of holy knowledge is reserved for Mars." the head priest answers in a slow voice. Angry maybe?

"I see. Sector wide, perhaps? Surely nearby forge worlds will be interested in new patterns, and offer some of their own in return." I muse to myself, and turn round to exmine the Fabricator's study.

Weapons and fragments of them, scrolls and codex glowing with arcane symbols reminding me of quantum physics formulas. They probably are exactly that, and more.

"So, it is true. You are trying to spread these advance patterns, even at cost to yourself. Gyron wasn't wrong, after all." the priest mutters while poking a cogitator and running some high speed simulations, possibly for my sake.

I try to store everything on my remembrance implant, but I fail. Too much data, too fast.

But I get the gist of it. Hive fleets Kraken and Behemoth attacking the sector, and logistical needs to supply everyone with new weapons. Not possible of course, going by the plethora of red errors and yellow alerts.

I hum in deep thought, powering up the savant implant for a minute.

There is no miracle solution, of course. The Empire has been slowly dying for 10 thousand years, and every single part of the government is corrupt to hell.

Still. "Hydra tanks, armed with the new multilaser pattern, maybe even new tracks and sensors. Same thing for medium grade skitarii troops. Melta guns, if you manage to reproduce them."

The skitarii are cyborg soldiers for the Mechanicus, and good ones. Their elites can match Space Marines in some scenarios. But if we could upgrade the medium ones, which number in the millions...

"Gambit Sk/2/33. I suppose we could try it with a few regiments and compare their new efficiency for cost. But ground troops are all presumed destroyed once a hive lands." the Fabricator says with a dismissive gesture.

So, he had already considered it. Of course, he has. This guy is basically the closest thing to an A.I., this side of the Galaxy.

"Ships take too long to build." I mutter in defeat. There are never enough ships, and a Hive has millions of ship grade organisms able to overwhelm any defensive fleet the Navy, or the Mechanicus can gather in a short time.

The Fabricator stares at me with glowing eyes. Something more then?

"Cheaper ships, maybe?" I wonder out loud. It's close to heresy, but not really.

"Yes, many radical priests argue the same. Millions of low quality ships to stem the tide. Millions of times weaker too." the Fabricator says with a doubtful voice.

"The Imperial Guard." I argue with a shrug. Humanity throws trillions of poorly armed soldiers to stem the tide. Sometimes it works. Sometimes they need Space Marines or Titans to help them. Sometimes, nothing is enough.

"Gyron speaks well of you, Lord Pef. Very well. We will try it for 101 years, when the Hive fleet Kraken is expected to arrive at Brimlock. Iridium-tungsten armor, mechanical Gellar fields, and cheap plasma engines. You will provide the officers, and we provide tech-priests and servitors for gunnery." the priest says in a not too pleased voice.

I feel I was given a test and a quest here, but I'm not smart enough to figure everything out. I'll need to ask Gyron.

"Great! Meanwhile, I thought of what I might need to go back beyond the Empire. An armored regiment, with a few low level Titans for support. And a few escort ships, if there are any to spare. Training officers works better if they can experience real missions."  
I quip in a friendly voice. I wonder if my grandfather had the same experience here.

The Fabricator waves a few mechadendrites to signify something. Perhaps anger?

"I have a Sword-class_Frigate that isn't covered by an adamantium hard contract. Titans are excluded. A dozen transport voidships with servitor crew. Now, for an armored regiment...we can empty a stasis block and extract two Baneblades and a Storm Blade. A thousand lesser vehicles, half of them Hydras and three Stormbird attack landers to deploy the heavies safely. Is that enough, Lord Pef?" the Fabricator asks in pleasant tone.

I'm not certain what it means, but I fear is not something good. Still, it seems the new multilaser was truly valuable.

A brand-new frigate, and armored regiment? Including those Baneblades.

I almost agree, before I catch myself. Gellar Field generators?

"Could you install these mechanical Gellar fields on the Stormbirds? Makes sense to protect such relics, should something happen in transit." I ask in a level voice.

"Yes, yes. It will be done, and make us start the new fabrication line much sooner. Come back in three years or so." the priest says and waves me off with a metal arm.

I walk outside and exhale deeply. The meeting was rather fruitful, but so tense and tiring.

Gyron waves at me in a friendly gesture.

"Steel of body,  
Steel of mind."  
111001111111

Damn it. I thought I have fixed the implant.


End file.
